Crossing the Rubicon
by TeaNaiswell
Summary: John will always stick up for Sherlock while Moriarty makes the world believe that Sherlock is a fraud. But what if there's more to Sherlock than he wants John to know? What if Molly is involved in it, too? This is a different twist to the Reichenbach Fall. Reviews appreciated.


Kitty Riley walks up to me and hands me a file of sheets. Sherlock is pensive, curiously silent at the room's corner, watching me intently, his lips pressed complacently, no line of worry upon his forehead. Moriarty, pretending to be Richard Brook stands a little away from me, whimpering pathetically; I have no idea how I resist the impulse to kick him right then and there. He has his hands up before himself, as if to surrender.

"Kitty, explain this to me. Because I don't understand a thing," I snap.

"_Living proof!_ Right here, in these papers!"

I am frustrated as I sieve through the papers filled with lies. I know the truth, but I feel as though my mouth is held by a gag so that it's impossible to explain myself. I just know it within myself but Moriarty has controlled his web in such a way that I have no proof to support my knowledge.

"I'm an actor! I'm a children's story teller," 'Richard Brook' whimpers, his voice shaking. He adds, with a watery smile, "I'm on DVD!"

"No, you're NOT!" I shout, losing my temper. I look frantically at Sherlock and I have no idea how he still maintains that complacent look. I point ferociously back at Moriarty, who backs away, as though defenselessly. "THAT'S MORIARTY YOU'RE MORIARTY! YOU WERE GOING TO BLOW ME UP!"

"I'm sorry, John! It was Sherlock! He _paid_ me to do it!" Moriarty's eyes are smiling, I can tell, because he thinks his plan is working. He looks back at Sherlock, shuddering, "Tell him, Sherlock! Tell him how you paid me!"

Sherlock is clenching his lip more tightly. I can see his face reddening.

"Tell him, Sherlock!" Moriarty urges, flinching a little at the sight of my friend. "Tell him, Sherlock! Just tell him -"

"STOP IT!" Sherlock bellows almost violently. I have never seen his face contort in that way but I can feel mine burn the same way. "STOP IT, STOP IT NOW!"

Sherlock and I race toward Moriarty but under the protection of Kitty, he is able to pass away smoothly up the stairs and disappear completely out of sight.

Out in the street, Sherlock is pacing furiously. I wonder how he deals with it all. The misappreciation has me wonder how he feels about all of those pains he's taken to solve all those cases.

"John," he says suddenly, turning slightly pale, "There's something I have to do." Before I can ask him where he is headed off to, he is already gone. For a second I worry. What if he's going to surrender himself and didn't tell me? I try to wave myself off of that thought. 'No,' I reassure myself, 'That's Sherlock. He doesn't just give himself up. Even if he would, he'd tell me, wouldn't he?' I swallow nervously, my eyes almost stinging a little. I feel my blood turn cold. I have to find Sherlock. I frantically turn the corner, and search the vicinity as much as I can but he's nowhere to be seen. It is too late to find him now, though, so I run to find Lestrade. Maybe he can help me.

Lestrade is at the office and Donovan and Anderson are at his side. I get a little annoyed at the sight of Anderson, but perhaps at least they still believe in Sherlock. I run up to them and hurry directly to Lestrade.

"It's urgent," I say breathlessly. "Sherlock's gone. He said there was something he needed to do. I think he's off to give himself up to Moriarty. You have to help me find him before he gets himself killed."

"Give himself up?" Anderson smirks. "You're talking about Richard Brook, by the way. Richard Brook's an actor."

"Oh, no, " Donovan bites her lip anxiously. "He's going to stage another crime scene again! He's probably going to kill RIchard Brook and solve the whole thing himself."

"No," I groan, sinking my forehead into the heel of my hand. "Not you, too! You don't really believe those stories, do you?" The heat rises threateningly to my face as I could feel the bones in my neck grow taut. My throat almost seems to close in as I turn back to Lestrade. "You don't do you? You'll help me, won't you?"

Lestrade draws his lip in and looks at me in something of the most kind of condescending pity. "John, we have to entertain the idea. Richard is under the protection of Kitty Riley and several officers. Sherlock couldn't hurt him there and neither could Richard Brook. Kitty's a witness, too, and Richard couldn't hurt Sherlock around witnesses, or the other way around, for that matter." The blood rushes to my face and almost obscures my eyesight in my desperation of this deception. Moriarty is cruel. Cruel and clever. Mycroft was right in saying that Moriarty is the most power criminal mastermind. Getting everyone to believe those false stories the way they did.

No, I can't just stand here while none of these guys are willing to help me. I won't bother convincing them now. I turn feverishly to all of them.

"Well, when did you see him leave?" Lestrade asks me, pointlessly, as I know he thinks.

"About a half an hour ago," I respond, hopeful that I might get some help.

"Oh," Anderson turns to me again. My heart lifts a little. "I forgot. I was at St. Bart's nearly half an hour ago. I think he said he was going to ask Molly for help or something."

The color rushes to my face in the best relief. My throat constricts in my happiness and tears almost well to my eyes. Never did I think I would have to resist the impulse to hug Anderson. I thank him, although, he stares at me like I'm crazy. But I have to tell Donovan something that would make her recoil. I don't know how I'm even trusting myself to talk.

"Do you ever even think about how much Sherlock has been helping you with those nearly unsolvable cases?" I say, my voice breaking. But I don't care. "You don't ever think about how he feels about this lack of appreciation?"

"He's a freak, John," she responds coolly. "He's been _committing_ all of those crimes, firstly; and even if he wasn't a fraud, he wouldn't feel anything about lack of appreciation. I already told you, he gets off on it. He _likes_ doing the work."

I scowl, my mouth twisting dryly, as I promptly leave the office and head directly for St. Bart's. Words cannot explain how relieved I am that someone has confirmed that he isn't with Moriarty. I hurry there without even thinking about what I'm passing letting alone reminding myself where I'm going. I just know. I just know where I'm going and I don't know what I'll do when I get there. But I know I'm going there, and that is all.

St. Bart's seems like such a happy sight, even late at night when it seems quieter here than usual. I pull open the doors and already well aware of my destination. Racing past each set of doors, I am bound for the morgue. I wonder why Sherlock didn't bring me along with him, but I will find out what the matter is when I get there. I hope it didn't involve some dangerous matter, or something like the 'experiment' he had me in at Baskerville. I worry a little for a second but I know I shouldn't.

While I hurry down the hall, it's deadly quiet. I feel like something is wrong. I pause for a second in my step and I quiet my breath to try and hear anything at all. The tension knotted up in my chest releases; I can hear Sherlock's voice muffled. Everything's fine.

I open the door. The lights are all turned off and I squint to see Sherlock and Molly in front of me, but I can't. They aren't there. Why aren't they? I can't hear Sherlock anymore. Was he in another room? I step back out and look into the window of another room but he isn't anywhere to be seen. For a moment I contemplate the possibility that I had only been hearing things and my blood runs cold. No, I can't have been. Sherlock and Molly have to be here. They have to be.

I think I hear a sharp breath drawn in for a second. It came from the door of the room I expected Sherlock to be in. I sigh in relief and head back in there.

But I still can't see him. I can't see either of them. I allow the door to swing shut.

"Who's there?" I hear a voice exclaim suddenly. It's Sherlock. I step closer. "Who's there?" Sherlock repeats. I'm a little startled. His voice was shaking. He sounded nervous.

"Sherlock? Molly?" I get no response but move further into the room. I finally see Sherlock, who cranes his neck back at me. From the low-watt white light falling faintly through the windoe of the door, I can see he's kneeling on the floor, his purple shirt tight against his tensed skin.

"John!" he says. "John, leave at once."

"Why?"

"John, just leave."

"But why?"

"Leave!" he bellows demandingly. I am startled and step back without saying anything. The way he shouted just now reminds me strangely of the way he bellowed at Moriarty.

And then I don't believe my eyes.

I have to, though. A terrible chemical smell runs pungently through my nose and my stomach lurches painfully. I feel my blood run cold. Sherlock has been kneeling over a figure. A helpless figure. She is limp. Dead limp. As I approach closer, she is Molly. I see a few dark, foggy stripes horizontally across her neck. Her head is turned at a wrong angle. And her skin looks like she's been drained of her blood.

Sherlock looks at me, his eyes strangely twinkling. His sleeves folded up, his fists clenched. I step back slowly.

"No, Sherlock," I say, not worried in the slightest. I talk normally. "Moriarty came here, didn't he? What did he do? Did he hurt you?" Sherlock smiles.

"You don't believe the stories, either, John, do you?"

"Of course I don't, Sherlock!"

"You are truly loyal, John."

"It's not just that, Sherlock. I know you aren't a fraud. I don't want the world believing you are one. We'll have to find some way to convince them otherwise."

"Why haven't you been listening to those stories? Why don't you believe Kitty Riley? How do you know I'm not a fraud?"

Sherlock's face is strangely bloodless. His tone scares me. I don't know what he's saying. "What are you saying, Sherlock? You know I'll help you."

"Ah, but it is more complicated than that."

"What are you saying?"

"You'll help me because you don't believe what they all say. I'm asking you why you choose not to."

"Because I've done cases with you, Sherlock! I know you!"

"You haven't been with me all the time."

"I haven't, I know. But I know you well enough. Why are you saying all of this?"

"John, leave me while you can."

"Sherlock, that's Molly. Is she dead?" my voice shakes now. "Why is she dead?"

"What would you say if I told you that all Kitty Riley told you were not stories, but indeed truth?"

I didn't respond. I stared at him, and he smiled back at me.

"What if I told you that I have set up every crime that we have solved?"

"That doesn't make sense, Sherlock. What about Carl Powers? What about everyone else?"

"The Carl Powers incident happened when I was a child."

"I know," I reminded.

"I poisoned him, John."

"No, you didn't. I watched you solve that situation."

"Only to impress you."

"No, you didn't."

"Would you believe Kitty Riley, then, if I tell you now that I am currently in the process of staging a crime?" he whispers softly, gesturing to the lifeless body before him.

"Stop it, Sherlock. Just _stop_ this!"

"Would you believe Kitty if I tell you now that I have just strangled Molly?" he says, standing and stepping toward me.

"Moriarty? And what about Moriarty?"

"I invented him, John. I paid Richard Brook to play the role of Moriarty."

"You didn't put a BOMB on me just to impress me, Sherlock. I'm not an idiot."

"John, I am sorry."

"Richard Brook?" I repeat, my voice breaking.

"I told you I paid him."

Sherlock comes nearer to me and his face is so close to mine that I can see a bead of sweat on his forehead. I think I can hear his heart beating.

"For God's sake -" I start, but Sherlock breaks me off.

"John, you should have run when you had the chance." His eyes are shining terribly; but I can hardly tell how, as there is barely any light in here. I see the gentle curl in his hair fall across his brow.

"Sorry?" I say.

"But as I am in the progress of staging a crime scene, you have come here now and have seen me."

"You know I don't believe you, Sherlock," I persist stubbornly. But what stabs my heart most painfully is the fact that I do. I do believe him. Tears well in my eyes and I press my fingers to stop them. I wished I had never come here.

"You do, John," Sherlock can tell. His eyes, of their piercingly light, vivid color, gaze into mine. "I just wish you had not come here."

"But I did," I said. "And I know you are a good man."

"I wish you did not say that, John. It hurts me that you are so loyal."

"I don't understand you," I say. Sherlock sets his hand against the wall that I lean against.

"If you hadn't come here," he says, in the most deathly, slowly way, "I would not be forced to kill you now."

Before I can try to run, I feel his strong fingers press into my throat and increase in pressure to the point that I am blinded. His other hand presses against my neck and I know no more.


End file.
